


Sweet and Spicy

by NicoleAnell



Category: Roswell (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleAnell/pseuds/NicoleAnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief return to my old fandom, written for a "3 fics I'd never write" fic meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet and Spicy

Max has an annoying habit of telegraphing his best kisses from a mile away. The few times she's experienced them, anyway, they were preceded by nearly two minutes of longing gazes, shuffling of feet, tentative fingers brushing her cheek and hair. She knows what to expect by now, and the electric faux-uncertainty all feels like a script, a predestined ritual. But this morning, in their awkward post-nookie tangle of clothes on the observatory floor, she pulls away before he does for once.

"Wait," she says, holding up a finger, "Hang on." He shakes a fallen-asleep leg and follows her with his eyes. From inside her purse, she grabs a sucking candy -- some Hershey-branded, overly sweet caramel -- and tells Max to close his eyes, which he doesn't, so she drops it into his hand. "Just hold it in your mouth for a second."

"Tess, what-?"

"Maybe I don't like your breath," she chirps, breaking into a smile so he's not sure whether to take her seriously. He does it anyway, and she sees him grimace and discreetly glance around for exit strategy. It's only then she returns to her bag and emerges with a mini-bottle of Tobasco. She takes a dramatic swig, and he bursts out laughing a second before their lips lock again.

It tastes new and magical and yet totally obvious, this symmetry on their tongues. She pushes through a flash of memory -- it's not mindwarping if it's real -- some lifetime ago when they made lazy, improvised love in a walled-off garden that seemed to exist only for them to be in it.

She's afraid the symbolism may be lost in how mindlessly good this feels, and her instinct is to say something. Remind him that his human fling can't do this with him, that she is the only one in this whole solar system who can. But she says nothing and lets the moment stay perfect, because his hands are firm and certain on her waist in a way she's never felt until now. She's never made him laugh like this or even smile before, and that feels like progress. She's never wanted so fiercely to hang onto his trust, and that feels like the opposite.


End file.
